


Swan Song for The Saint

by LuckyLadybug



Category: The Saint (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5815636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuckyLadybug/pseuds/LuckyLadybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TV show based. Simon Templar appears to be dead. What could have led up to his tragic demise? And is there any chance that perhaps things are not exactly as they seem?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swan Song for The Saint

**Author's Note:**

> The characters from shows are not mine and the other characters and the story are! This is television series based and not book-based. It is Roger Moore's Saint, but there are some slight and subtle indications that the time period has been moved to the present-day. I'm used to series like Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys doing that and I like to as well, because after all, we still need a Saint. Perhaps now more than ever.

It was a day Inspector Teal had known would eventually come. A civilian and a criminal could only be reckless for so long, could only enrage so many more vile than he, could only reign as a modern-day Robin Hood for a certain number of years before it all caught up with him.

Still, when he got the phone call that night just as he was about to leave his office and his colleague Inspector Sparrow told him of the gruesome discovery out by the cliffs, it was with a heavy heart that he hung up the phone and headed out of his office. The brief telephone conversation echoed through his mind as he trudged towards the door.

_"Inspector Teal, I regret to inform you of what we found tonight on the rocks below Maiden's Cliff."_

_"What was it? Another idiot girl jumping to her death because she can't have the man she wants?"_

_"I'm afraid this time it's the man. And I don't think he jumped all by himself."_

_"You think he fell or was pushed?"_

_"Pushed, more likely. I can scarcely feature this man falling."_

_"Well, what man is it?!"_

_"Simon Templar."_

Teal had been stunned into silence. He had slumped back, the phone slipping away from his ear.

_"Hello?! I say, Inspector Teal! Are you still there?"_

_". . . Yes. Don't disturb the murder scene if you can help it. I'm coming out."_

He barely remembered the drive; it was peppered with the memories of years' worth of encounters with that dratted Simon Templar. He had always vowed that someday he would catch Templar in the act of making his mistake and that he would bring that vigilante down once and for all. But that had never happened. Templar had never made his mistake and Teal had at last slipped into a grudging acceptance of that fact. He had known he was not likely to ever put an end to Templar's dubious career, and with a sigh and a growled threat, he had also accepted that they had a rocky friendship.

Now someone else had ended Templar's career, and Teal had to worriedly wonder: for anyone to accomplish it so cruelly, how formidable were they?

He hadn't really processed the facts even though he had been told. Being told that Templar was dead wasn't the same thing as witnessing it for himself. But when he drove up to Maiden's Cliff at last and got out of the car and looked down, he could see it was true. The body lying sprawled on the rocks below was without a doubt Simon Templar.

Teal quickly found the steep trail down the side of the cliff and cautiously took it, hugging the mountain whenever possible. At the bottom, he carefully made his way over to the scene and stood there, gazing down at the man known as The Saint. Slowly he removed his hat.

What a sorry end. He had to admit, he had never thought Templar would have his career ended this way. He had envisioned a gun battle or a car crash or even jailtime, but never being pushed off a cliff.

Inspector Sparrow came over to him from the side. "I'm sorry, Inspector Teal," he said regretfully. "I know he was a friend of yours, despite your desire to stop him from his criminal ways."

"Nevermind that," Teal growled. He took a step closer, shaken but not wanting to admit it. "His body is broken, I suppose."

"No," Sparrow replied, to Teal's surprise. "He has a ghastly lump on his head, but otherwise there isn't more than bruises and scratches."

"And you're absolutely sure he's dead?" Teal barked. "This is Simon Templar we're talking about. He always has some cheeky trick up his sleeve!"

"Oh, he's dead, Inspector Teal," Sparrow insisted. "The sergeant and I both checked very thoroughly. There is no breath, no heartbeat. The man called The Saint has been silenced for good."

Teal's eyes darkened. He had carried one small smidgen of hope, even though he had known it was ridiculous. He turned away, not wanting to look any more. "Take him away then."

"Right away." Sparrow hurried off to give the order to his sergeant.

Teal stayed where he was, not turning around. "Well, Templar, it looks like you're off to meet the real saints now," he muttered. "I wonder if they'll have you."

He swore under his breath. "If you've truly been murdered, I'll get to the bottom of it," he vowed. "Your murderer won't run free for long." He stared off at the stars and the ocean, the former twinkling brightly in the sky while the latter lapped calmly against the shore. "What could have brought down the infamous Simon Templar? What was The Saint's Waterloo?" He slowly turned back to face the still form. "What secrets did you take with you to your death?"

Of course, there was no reply. It was as Inspector Sparrow had said: The Saint had been silenced for good.

****

The day had actually started out fairly normally. Simon had got up and taken breakfast while looking over the morning paper. Perhaps he was seeing if there were any goings-on that required his attention. On the other hand, perhaps he was checking on the fates of some criminal or another that he had already attended to. In any case he wasn't planning on an abrupt and plaintive knock at his door.

He jumped up as soon as he heard the sound, tossing his paper aside into the chair and hurrying to the door. "I'm coming," he called when the noise persisted. "Good heavens, can't you wait a moment?" But then he was at the door and unlocking it and standing face to face with the panicked, beautiful brunet thing. She was standing with one arm raised to knock again. "Hello," he said kindly and appreciatively.

She looked at him with nothing less than a mixture of panicked, desperate hope. "Are you Simon Templar?" she pleaded. "The one they call The Saint?"

"Yes," Simon said in surprise. She wasn't the first to deliberately seek him out needing help and she wouldn't be the last, as far as Simon knew. "Are you in trouble?"

"Yes, oh yes!" the girl moaned. "Please, I don't want Donald to see I'm here."

"Well, we can't have that." Simon opened the door wider. "Come in."

The girl entered the room gratefully and Simon shut the door after her, turning to watch as she crossed to the couch and immediately shed her coat. Next she sat down primly on the very edge of the couch, her hands balled into fists that rested on her knees.

"Alright," said Simon. "Now, what's your problem and who is Donald?"

"My husband." The girl heaved a heavy sigh. "The problem is that for a while I thought we were very happy together. He was all I'd ever wanted in a man: thoughtful, kind, caring, a good sense of humor. . . . Only lately I've started to realize that I never really knew him at all. He's started having these secret meetings. He always comes back from them very stressed and very angry. He's even taken to . . . to abusing me when I say the most harmless things." She absently ran a hand over her arm.

Simon's eyes narrowed. He had never been able to tolerate abuses to the innocent. "Do you have any idea what these secret meetings are about?" he wondered.

"No," was the helpless reply. "Oh, I thought at first they had something to do with his business, but I don't know any more. Maybe he owes money and those people he meets with have been coming around to collect."

"That's possible," Simon agreed in a noncommittal tone. "But I think before we go any further, you should tell me your name." He smiled. "I like to know whom I'm helping."

The girl blushed. "Of course. My name is Tara Wilson."

"Well, Tara Wilson, I'm glad to meet you," Simon said grandly. "I'll do everything I can to get to the bottom of things. Where does your husband work?"

"The London office of Fragmented Triangle," Tara told him. "He's a programmer."

"I'll go and talk with him," Simon promised. "But meanwhile, you shouldn't go home. Take a room at a hotel, preferably one where he wouldn't think to look for you."

Tara nodded. "I'll do that." She paused. "But please be careful, Mr. Templar. Donald has a violent temper, and if he's mixed up in anything crooked, I hate to think what could happen to you."

"I'll be careful," Simon assured her. "I've grown used to dealing with the Ungodly."

"The Ungodly?" Tara repeated with a confused blink.

"Those who trample on the rights of the innocent for their own selfish gain," Simon explained. "We'll soon know exactly what your husband is."

"And if he is a criminal, what am I going to do?" Tara moaned.

"We'll cross that bridge if we come to it," Simon replied. "But I would advise you to get away from him whether he's involved in a large-scale criminal operation or not. No one has the right to abuse another human being, regardless of their reason."

Tara looked down. "I still love him, Mr. Templar."

Simon inwardly sighed. Even though he knew love could not be turned off and on like a lightswitch, some people's insistence in staying in unhealthy relationships appalled him.

"Well," he said at last, "we'll worry about that later as well. For now you should keep away from him."

"And I will," Tara vowed. "Thank you." She paused. "Oh, but Mr. Templar? Whatever happens, please promise you won't hurt him."

A bad feeling about this case was starting to form in Simon's stomach. "I can only promise I'll try," he said.

****

Fragmented Triangle was a relatively recent business in London and elsewhere, but it had merged with another, long-standing company and now was an indelible mixture of both. Its parent corporation was above reproach, but there were those who believed that Fragmented Triangle was very secretly up to no good and would taint the honest company to which it had merged.

Simon really didn't know one way or another. He had endeavored to investigate the company in the past, but without success. From all indications, the company was spotless even though the president's past was completely shadowy. Now he had to wonder if what was starting out as a case against an abusive husband might end up turning into another investigation of Fragmented Triangle's practices. He really wouldn't mind in the least if that were so and if Fragmented Triangle turned out to be in need of dismantling or at least, new leadership; he was happy to weed out all the corrupt businesses he could.

He found his way to the company building easily enough and he managed to smoothly inquire as to the floor where the programmers had set up shop. The receptionist told him, asking whether he was a prospective new client. Simon replied that you could just never tell.

He didn't ask for Donald Wilson's specific desk, as he didn't want her calling ahead to say he was coming. He would prefer to surprise Wilson; he might be more likely to learn something that way.

When he found the right floor and the right desk, he found that Donald Wilson was deeply occupied in his work. Either that or he simply bore a permanent scowl on his features. If it were the latter, Simon had to wonder all the more what had attracted Tara to him.

Wilson kept working as Simon approached. Yes, Simon thought to himself, either the man was wrapped up in his work or he was deliberately ignoring Simon. The latter wasn't a very attractive picture and he had to wonder how good of a worker Wilson was.

For several minutes Simon leaned with one elbow on the top of the cubicle, observing Wilson's hands flying over the keyboard and then grabbing a piece of paper to scrawl something down. Then, once Simon was bored of studying the man's work habits and felt he'd seen enough, he spoke. "Donald Wilson?"

The man practically started out of his mind, the pencil flying into the air. He fumbled to catch it. "Yes? Who are you?" He squinted suspiciously at Simon. "You don't work here."

"What makes you say that?" Simon said calmly. "Do you know every employee in the building?"

"Almost," Wilson grunted. "Both past and present. I remember when those international jewel thieves Townsend and Trevino were working at this branch."

"You have been here a long time," Simon remarked. He had crossed paths with those two several times, generally when they were after something that belonged to a friend. Although he had always recovered the property, he had never caught them. Now they were living in Los Angeles, where they had remained after serving a prison sentence for the theft of the Borland Diamond. Since they had been long-time employees and knew the business, Fragmented Triangle had wanted them to build up the new Los Angeles branch of the company, an offer they had gratefully accepted. It wasn't easy for ex-convicts to find decent work; they would have been fools to have turned it down.

"Anyway," Simon continued, "you mean _former_ international jewel thieves."

"Eh." Wilson didn't look impressed. "That's what they want people to think."

"Some people have no reason to believe otherwise. For my part, I believe them." Simon pushed away from the cubicle.

"So you believe them. Fine, whatever." Wilson turned to really look up at him. He went several shades of pale. "Wait a minute," he gasped. "You . . . you're Simon Templar! The Saint!"

"That's what they call me," Simon agreed.

"And you're paying a visit to me? Why?" Wilson looked both tense and suspicious.

"I've heard unpleasant things about how you treat your wife," Simon replied, watching Wilson closely for his reaction.

Wilson almost seemed to go limp with relief. "Tara? You're here because of her?" Then, seeming to realize his reaction looked suspicious, he gruffly went on, "She went to see you about the row we had last night, didn't she?"

"She mentioned something about your abusing her," Simon said, looking him straight in the eye. "But mainly she came to see me because even in spite of the beastly way you treat her, she loves you and she's worried about you."

"Worried about me?" Wilson was defensive again. "Why?"

Simon took a step forward, placing a hand on the desk. "She thinks you're mixed up in something you shouldn't be," he answered. "Maybe you got into something over your head and don't know how to get out. Maybe you know exactly what you're doing and don't want to get out. In any case, Tara loves you a good deal more than you likely deserve. She wanted me to see what I could do for you."

Wilson leaped out of his chair so fast he knocked it over. "Now see here, Templar," he snarled. "What happens in my and my wife's lives is no concern of yours. So Tara thinks things she has no business thinking. It isn't your affair and you should just back out of it right now!"

Simon wondered if Wilson even realized that heads were popping up above every cubicle as his voice rose. All the other programmers were staring in either wide-eyed wonder, curious amazement, or aggravated frustration at the interruption to their work.

"And what if I don't?" Simon asked, hoping Wilson wouldn't think about their audience before responding. If he made a threat, there would be dozens of witnesses.

In that, he was rewarded. Wilson stepped closer to him, his hot breath flaring on Simon's face. "Then I'm going to take that mystical halo of yours and wrap it very carefully around your neck!" he bellowed, curling his hands around Simon's neck in emphasis. But then, without trying to strangle him, he removed his hands and stormed back to his chair.

Or rather, he stormed back to where he thought his chair was. Not even realizing he had knocked it down, he tried to sit on it and promptly fell on the floor. Several members of his unwanted audience laughed.

That brought his attention up with a start. Finally realizing the exhibition he had put on for his coworkers, he practically blew smoke out of his ears. _"Shut up!"_ he screamed, leaping to his feet and bringing the chair with him. _"Just shut up, all of you!"_

Simon decided it was a very good time to take his leave. He quietly slipped out while the chaos and confusion slowly settled back into peaceable order.

****

Simon drove back to his house, pondering on the odd visit and on what he had learned. The most important things he had found out were dual: that Donald Wilson most definitely had something to hide and that he and Simon had two other apparent mutual contacts besides Tara. Now, Simon determined, even though Ginger Townsend and Lou Trevino would not appreciate him barging into their lives one more time, the most logical next step was to find out what they knew of Donald Wilson.

He placed the long-distance call as soon as he was back in his living room and reclining on his couch. With the eight-hour time difference, it would be early in the morning in Los Angeles. He counted himself very grateful that the ice-cold Ginger, admirer of firearms, would not be able to use one on him over the telephone.

"Hello," the familiar and gravelly British voice growled after several insistent rings.

"Good morning, Ginger," Simon said brightly. "How is everything in Los Angeles today?"

An aggravated pause. "I wouldn't bloody well know. I was sleeping, like all respectable people in Los Angeles do at this hour."

"Of course." Simon sobered, both because the matter was serious and because Ginger was more likely to be willing to help the less levity there was. "I'm sorry to wake you at this hour, but I need some information."

"You couldn't have waited until it's morning in Los Angeles?" Ginger retorted in annoyance. "Since when do _you_ need information from _me?_ "

"Who is it, Ginger?" a sleepy New Yorker asked in the background. Lou, naturally.

"That bloody Simon Templar," Ginger snarled.

That snapped Lou awake. "Huh?!"

"He wants some information from us." Ginger turned his attention back to the phone. "Alright, now you've got us both awake. This had better be quick."

"It can be," Simon replied. "I need to know everything you remember about a programmer named Donald Wilson. He works at the London branch of your company."

"Donald Wilson," Ginger repeated. "I never liked him."

"Yes, but you hardly like anyone other than Lou," Simon said. "That isn't much help."

"Lou didn't like him either," Ginger grunted. "Aside from his short temper, he always seemed to have things on his mind that he felt were more important than his work. I don't know how he's lasted all these years."

"What things?" Simon demanded.

"He was always taking calls from people that weren't work-related and arranging to have meetings with people. I remember he mentioned the name Portman a time or so."

"Portman?" Simon frowned. "Did he say who Portman was or what he did?"

"It was a Dr. Portman," Ginger replied. "Unfortunately for you, the only Dr. Portman I know of is a mad scientist who gets her jollies by mentally and emotionally torturing anyone who catches her fancy. She's institutionalized now. Who knows how long that will last."

"I see." Now Simon was deeply troubled. He had certainly heard of _that_ Dr. Portman. He had badly wanted to bring her down, and he had tried once on a trip to America. He had failed, although he had at least put a stop to her then-current operation. The news of her arrest and imprisonment had filled him with a deep satisfaction and pleasure, even though he had not had anything to do with it.

"If you're wondering if Wilson gave any indication of what he wanted with Dr. Portman, he didn't," Ginger broke into his thoughts. "I couldn't even swear it was that Dr. Portman. I don't know what the bloody devil a computer programmer would want with a mad scientist."

"I don't either," Simon said. "Do you remember anything else?"

Ginger paused. "One time I heard him mention something on the phone about a formula. I don't know what he was talking about. I'll have to ask Lou if he remembers anything more."

"Please, do that." Simon held on the line, waiting while Ginger conversed with his best friend.

When Ginger came back to the phone, he sounded much more awake and less angry. "Lou remembers that Wilson seemed to be looking for a Dr. Taryn Michaels," he reported. "He said she would never give in and give them the formula unless he played his cards right."

Simon shot upright with a jolt. "Taryn Michaels?" he exclaimed. "Is Lou sure?"

"Yes, Lou's sure," Ginger snapped, annoyed again. "That's all we can tell you. It had better be enough."

"It is, Ginger. Thank you."

The wheels were turning in Simon's head as he hung up. _Taryn!_ The name was so similar to Tara. Was there any chance it wasn't a coincidence? Could they be one and the same person? If they were, he had to wonder how much of Tara's story had been true.

He pushed himself up from the couch. It was time to go calling again, this time to a hotel room.

****

Tara was in when Simon arrived, much to his relief for several reasons. He went on up and over to her room, where he gave a swift rap at the door.

"Who is it?" Tara demanded almost immediately.

"Simon Templar," he replied.

She quickly unlocked the door. "Oh Mr. Templar, I've been so worried!" she exclaimed.

He stepped into the room. "For me or for Donald?"

She sighed. "Both of you, really." She shut and locked the door behind him. "What happened?"

"Well, naturally he denied any wrongdoing," Simon told her. "But I learned something interesting from two of his former coworkers. They told me he often took telephone calls about a Dr. Portman and mentioned he was searching for a Dr. Taryn Michaels." He looked her straight in the eye. "Interesting, isn't it? Taryn, Tara? They're so similar."

Tara's shoulders slumped. "Well, there's a reason for that. Yes, Mr. Templar, she's me. I'm Taryn Michaels."

"That's all well and fine, but what about what you told me?" Simon frowned. "How much of that was true, if any of it was?"

"It was true," Tara said firmly. "It's a cliche, I know, but I was a scientist who spent so much time in my laboratory, I had no time for getting to know people. I didn't want to know people. And I never thought I'd be taken in by one. But Donald managed to do it."

"He isn't exactly what I would call the knight in shining armor type," Simon remarked.

"He wasn't," Tara said with a half-smile. "I suppose that was why I fell for him, really. His brash and rude behavior somehow endeared itself to me. He seemed so real, so genuine, unlike the smooth and fake people I'd seen so much of."

Simon sighed. "Alright, so then you married him. How long ago was that?"

"Several years ago." Tara began to pace the room. "If this has all been a sham, I suppose he really went all-out with it. Funny, I never thought he'd have the patience for something like that. Or the ability to lie that well."

"I wouldn't think so either," Simon admitted. "Most likely he's working for someone who told him exactly what to do."

"Oh, I hate to think that about him," Tara berated.

"But he said that you would never give up your formula unless he played his cards right," Simon said. "What formula was he talking about?"

Tara slumped back. "I've really only had one major project for the last several years," she said slowly. "I was developing a drug that could temporarily make someone appear dead."

Of all things Simon had thought he might hear, that was not one of them. "Why on Earth would you want to develop something like that?" he frowned.

"It was supposed to have medicinal properties," Tara explained. "It was to be used as sort of a suspended animation technique, you see? Like if someone was very badly injured and they needed to . . . power down, for lack of a simpler term, so they could properly heal. I also thought maybe it would be of some use to secret agents. They could take it if they were captured and then their enemies would think they used a suicide pill and were dead, you know? But then these strange people came to me wanting the formula. They said they wanted it badly enough that they would pay very handsomely to get it. I didn't trust them and I sent them away. Then I started realizing that a drug like that could be very dangerous in the wrong hands. Why, someone could even be buried alive!"

"You made an antidote to bring people out of it sooner, I hope," Simon said.

"Of course," Tara nodded. "And those loathsome people wouldn't leave me alone. They kept coming back and I kept refusing. I wanted to just destroy the drug and the formula. But . . ." She sighed and shrugged. "I didn't want to be bullied into making that move, either. So I locked the only batches of the drug and the antidote up together with the formula."

"And then they went through this charade with Donald Wilson," Simon finished. "Incredible." He shook his head. "Something doesn't add up. If they want your drug so badly they'd plan for years to get it, they must be planning something more serious than even using it to bury people alive."

"And that's what I've tried to figure out," Tara sighed. "I've got nowhere!"

Simon started to pace too. "You really should have told me all of this from the start."

"I was stupidly hoping Donald would come clean and admit to everything," Tara said. "I honestly do love him. I thought he'd surely been pushed into things and that he didn't want to be part of it. I thought if he knew we'd both help him, he'd let us." She stopped pacing and stood dejectedly. "What are we going to do now?"

Simon stopped pacing and looked at her. "Do you know anything about the men who kept coming to see you? A name, who they worked for, the car they drove, anything?"

"Well . . ." Tara paused, thinking. "One man was taller than the other. They both wore black suits and coats. I know that isn't much help. They were careful not to use any names for each other."

"But didn't they tell you who they were working for?" Simon frowned. "Surely they'd know you'd be more likely to consider their offer if you knew who was making it."

"They did mention the name," Tara admitted. "Dr. Portman."

"So she's likely still the mastermind then." Simon sighed, running his hand through his hair.

"Dr. Portman the mad scientist?!" Tara protested. "But she's in an asylum for the criminally insane!"

"And she had at least one student who tried to carry on her cruelty by downing a private jet and abducting everyone on it while leaving their loved ones to think they were dead," Simon said.

"How horrible!" Tara's eyes went wide. "What was the purpose of such a thing?"

"He wanted to see how their loved ones would react," Simon said darkly. "It was a long, drawn-out examination of the grief process. As a matter of fact, your husband's former coworkers Ginger Townsend and Lou Trevino were among those included in the experiment."

"That's outrageous!" Tara spat. "But he was caught too, wasn't he?"

"There could be other devoted students of Portman's brand of madness," Simon pointed out. "Or she could even be orchestrating everything from her current location. A crooked doctor or nurse could be helping her."

"Oh, this is awful." Tara sank down on the couch. "If Dr. Portman or people acting in her name are still the ones after my formula, how will we ever fight them?"

Undaunted, Simon sat next to her. "Let's start formulating a plan. Donald is going to be contacting whoever he's working with and telling them what happened today. They will then most likely contact me."

"And they'll try to get you to tell them where I am!" Tara exclaimed. "They'll torture you!"

"First we'll have a conversation," Simon said. "I doubt they'll go for torture immediately. They never went there with you and it's been several years."

"So by now their patience must be wearing thin," Tara retorted. "Maybe that's why Donald has grown abusive."

"But he's never asked you about the formula, has he?" Simon asked.

"No, he hasn't." Tara frowned, rubbing her arm. "Maybe he hoped that just by watching me he would somehow learn a clue as to where I'd hidden it away." She looked to Simon. "So what do you plan to do when they come for you?"

"If they want to talk at my home, we will. If they want me to go with them, I'll go." Simon stood. "If I can make them believe that I'll get the formula for them, we might be able to catch them all in the act and have them arrested."

Tara stood with him. "Oh, but how would they ever believe that?" she objected. "If they know who you are, they know you stand for justice."

"Actually, you'd be surprised at how many people believe I'm nothing more than a common criminal out to get ill-gotten gains," Simon replied. "I think I could make it convincing enough for them. I've done it many times before."

Tara sighed. "Well, I don't like it, but I suppose you know your business. If you can get them to believe you, then what?"

"Then you will get a message to Chief Inspector Claude Eustace Teal at Scotland Yard and bring your formula to where I am," Simon replied. "Of course, it won't be the genuine article. The police will shadow you to the meeting place, the formula will change hands, and when I hand it to them, the police will nab them all."

"It sounds fantastic," Tara said. "If it will only work. But what about Donald?!"

Simon gave her a Look. "Tara, he's obviously deeply mixed up in this. I doubt he has any interest in you or in changing or that he's worth your loving him even if he does. However, if he wants to testify in exchange for a lighter sentence, I'm sure an arrangement can be reached."

Tara didn't look happy, but she nodded. "I guess that's the best I can hope for. I won't give up on him, Mr. Templar. To me, he is still worth loving."

Simon sighed. "Well," he said, "we'll soon find out. But Tara, there's one more thing I want to know: the location of the real formula."

Tara stiffened. "I've kept it secret all these years. With all due respect, why would I tell you when I've only known you for a day?"

"You can't be too careful," Simon said. "But that goes for me too. I don't want to proceed without knowing where it is."

"I never keep it in one place for too long," Tara admitted. "When I ran today, I took it with me. It's here in the safe in this room."

Simon perked up. "Show me," he requested. He slipped his hand into his pocket, fingering a bottle that he hoped was identical to what was in the safe.

Tara hesitated, but finally stood up and crossed the room to a picture on the wall. Removing it, she took out a key and unlocked the wall safe behind it. "Here."

Simon came over to look. Two small vials were standing atop an old and crinkled sheet of paper. He reached in, lifting one vial and then the other. "Which is which?"

"The one you're holding now is the antidote," Tara explained.

"I see," said Simon, placing the small bottle in the safe. Still concealing something in his hand, he placed that in his now-empty pocket.

Tara didn't notice Simon's unusual actions. She closed and locked the safe and replaced the picture in front of it. "Well," she said, "if you're going to go home and wait for them, you'd better do it."

"I'm going to." Simon headed for the door. "You're still in danger, Tara. Don't open the door for anyone other than me."

"I won't," Tara promised. "Please be careful, Mr. Templar."

Simon looked back at her and smiled. "I intend to."

He made one stop before going home: to the local post office, where he slipped the purloined bottle into an envelope with a hypodermic needle and a short note and posted it Express Delivery. Now that he knew what Tara's project was, and who might be behind all of this madness, he had a bad feeling of what might be in store for him. He wasn't going to take any unnecessary chances.

****

Simon really wasn't surprised when things proceeded quite like he had predicted, for a while. He went home and waited for the inevitable arrival of someone's thugs, and towards evening, they came. Also as predicted, they wanted Simon to go with them, and he readily accepted.

"Really, going with you boys was exactly what I wanted all long," he said as he was ushered into a dark car at gunpoint. "I deliberately made an annoyance and a spectacle of myself in the hopes of Donald Wilson contacting you about me."

"Why?" one of the gunmen snapped as he and his partner climbed in on either side of Simon. A third henchman got up front and backed the car away from the house.

"I wanted to talk about getting the formula you want," Simon said calmly. "I can do it, you know."

"We've been trying for several years without any luck," the second gunman retorted, unimpressed. "What makes you think you could get it from Dr. Michaels after knowing her for less than a day?"

"You forget that she came to me for help," Simon said, leaning back in the seat. "To some extent, she trusts me. I can convince her that she has to turn over the formula to me to help her husband."

The gunmen exchanged wary looks. "We'd have to call the boss," the first one said at last.

"By all means," Simon said, spreading his hands in an unconcerned gesture.

The second one picked up the receiver of a car phone and spoke to the mobile operator. Within minutes he was saying, "Hello, Boss?" and Simon was straining in a desperate attempt to hear both sides of the conversation.

It didn't last long; the gunman was soon hanging up and turning to look at Simon. "He wants to see you and talk to you in person," he announced. "If he likes what you say, he'll let you call Dr. Michaels and try to talk her into bringing the stuff."

"That's fine," Simon replied. "I wanted to meet your boss anyway."

The drive took them to an older house outside of the city. When they stopped and Simon was prodded inside at gunpoint, a black-haired man he didn't recognize was in the red-themed parlor to greet them.

"Good evening, Mr. Templar," he said smoothly, holding up a glass of wine. "I understand you want to cooperate with us. Why?"

"The money, of course," Simon said without skipping a beat. "The way I live doesn't come cheaply."

"No, I don't imagine it would." The man's eyes glittered. "But you are the one known as The Saint. The majority of any money you make goes to charity and other worthy causes. And you're loyal to your clients. I find it hard to believe that you're throwing your current client overboard in favor of what money we might pay you for the recovery of her formula."

"My client wanted me to help her husband," Simon answered. "I came to the conclusion that this was the best way to do it."

"I wonder if she'll think so," his host mused. "But if you think you can convince her, be my guest." He gestured with his wine glass at the telephone table.

"I already am," Simon said wryly as he glanced at the old-style rotary phone. "And to think I don't even know your name."

"Oh, how rude of me." The man smiled at him in an unsettling manner. "Not that my name would mean anything to you, but it's Rayburn Johnson. A rather unexciting name, wouldn't you think?"

"That all depends on what you do with it," Simon said.

"Well," Rayburn continued to smile, "I believe that's my business."

"Not if I'm to help you," Simon said evenly. "As you said, I'm called The Saint. Well, how much of a saint would I be if I stood by and allowed you to have the formula in order to commit sins?"

Rayburn chuckled. "You do have a point there. But not to worry, Mr. Templar. My purpose in wanting the formula is to save a life, not end it."

Simon quirked an eyebrow. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"I'll inject it in someone so that they will appear to be dead," Rayburn said, his eyes gleaming in obvious excitement and madness. "Then they can be freed from the bondage in which they are currently held."

"You're still not making much sense," Simon said. "Unless this person is being held hostage, they must be a prisoner somewhere."

"You don't believe in unjustly holding someone in prison, do you, Mr. Templar?" Rayburn said.

"No," Simon frowned, "but without knowing who this person is, I can't say whether I think they're being held unjustly."

"I don't think I'll tell you any more right now." Rayburn set the wine glass down and took a threatening step towards him. "What I'll tell you instead is that we already know where Dr. Michaels is now staying, and if you don't convince her to turn over the formula to us, we'll see that she dies."

"Very well," Simon said coolly as he picked up the receiver. "You make a convincing argument." Inwardly he prayed that Tara had contacted Inspector Teal as they had planned.

Tara sounded strange when she answered the phone moments later. Simon had to wonder if she was not alone in her room. The idea sounded plausible, considering what Rayburn had just told him about knowing her location. When he presented his rehearsed argument for giving up the formula, however, she sounded convincing in her initial refusal and then her gradual wearing down to agreement. By the time he hung up, he smiled calmly at Rayburn and said, "She's coming."

Rayburn's eyes gleamed in an even more unsettling way. "Good. Mr. Templar, how about a drink while we sit down to wait?"

Simon just regarded him evenly. "No, thanks. I only drink with friends."

Far from being offended, Rayburn gave a low chuckle. "That's a good policy . . . just as long as you know who your friends really are."

"Generally I do," Simon answered.

"It only takes one slip-up to put you in need of new friends," Rayburn purred. "Or a new life."

Simon crossed to the couch. "Neither of which is easily attainable." He sat down, never taking his eyes off of the strange and unsettling man.

"Too true," he said with another low chuckle, and Simon's distaste and wariness grew. He felt fully justified when Rayburn continued, "Dr. Portman always delighted in examining what people would do when faced with situations that could cause friends to turn against each other."

"I was wondering when she was going to enter the picture," Simon commented dryly.

"Oh, she's center stage in this little drama," Rayburn grinned. "None of it would have been possible without her."

"I'll have to thank her when it's all over." The sarcasm was growing thick in Simon's voice.

"Yes," Rayburn mused, and Simon almost thought he heard him add, "you should indeed thank her for giving you the experience that will allow you to become a real saint."

A car pulled up outside before Simon had the chance to question Rayburn on exactly what he had meant . . . although Simon could guess. Simon stood, starting towards the window. "It sounds like they're here."

"They are," Rayburn agreed, his voice smooth and calm yet filled with a definite danger.

Simon braced himself. If all was going according to plan, Inspector Teal and other police officers would be observing everything from this point on. He had to see that the exchange happened in the doorway, where they could see. He hurried over there as a thug opened the door. Somewhat to his surprise, he wasn't held back.

Tara had tears in her eyes as she came up the steps, flanked by two more thugs. "Mr. Templar, I'm sorry," she said, and Simon felt she honestly was.

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

Tara opened her bag and removed a hypodermic needle. "I'm afraid I do."

"What is that for?!" Simon exclaimed. "The drug is supposed to remain in its vial!" And Tara wasn't supposed to bring the real one at all, he added to himself.

The two thugs on either side of Tara moved up, grabbing him by his arms. Rayburn, calmly approaching from behind, smiled at the scene. "Most of it will," he purred. "But some of it, Mr. Templar, is going to be in your bloodstream."

Simon clenched his teeth, struggling in vain against his captors. "Why me? I'm surely not the person whose life you want to preserve."

"Hardly." Rayburn watched as Tara filled the needle with a clear substance from a vial in her handbag. "I want you to be a . . . guinea pig, shall we say. I'll see how the drug really performs before I dare use it for my purposes."

"And once you've seen that?" Simon snapped.

"Then I really don't care what becomes of you," Rayburn answered. "You can be buried alive, for all I care." A sneer split his features. "Won't that be a story for the ages? The Saint, passing out of mortality after a vain struggle against a sealed coffin six feet under."

Simon glowered at him. "You're one of Dr. Portman's students, aren't you? You're carrying on her madness now that she's out of commission!"

"You know, she would have found you a thoroughly fascinating subject," Rayburn declared. "A mysterious private citizen who has devoted his life to protecting the innocent and bringing down the guilty, even though that means he must break the law himself by acting as a vigilante." He drew closer, grabbing Simon's jaw in his hand. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that vigilantes only succeed in the comics? Sometimes not even then; look what happened to poor Jason Todd. That still weighs heavily on Batman's heart." He released Simon, shoving him back at the same time.

Tara came closer now, the needle fully filled. Ignoring Rayburn's spiel, Simon turned to her. "Tara, why are you doing this?" he exclaimed. "This wasn't the way it was supposed to be!"

"I never called the police, Mr. Templar. I'm sorry." Tara bit her lip, but reached for Simon's nearest hand. "In the end I chose to help my husband."

"Well, I hope he appreciates how devoted you are to him," Simon retorted. He kept his hand balled in a fist, not that it did any good. Tara simply shoved the point of the needle in between his fingers, near his knuckles, and released the drug.

Simon felt the effects almost immediately. He gasped, stumbling back against the henchmen as his world swayed and began to darken.

"You'll feel like you're dying," Tara whispered. "Then it will all be over."

Simon felt it, alright. His heart was slowing, stopping. No, it wouldn't stop . . . not if the drug really worked as it was supposed to. But it felt stopped. It had also grown difficult to take a breath. Simon gave one last choke and slumped to the floor as everything went black. The thugs let him go, unceremoniously laying him on the red carpet.

Rayburn stood over him, still intrigued. "I can't see that his chest is rising and falling at all." He bent down, feeling for a pulse. "And there's no indication that his heart is pumping."

Tara replaced the needle in her bag. "That's how it works, Mr. Johnson. For all intents and purposes, Simon Templar is dead."

Rayburn looked up at her. "And you, my dear, have made it all possible. May I present Dr. Taryn Michaels, killer of The Saint."

Tara's eyes filled with unshed tears. "Please let me give him the antidote," she begged. "You've seen now how it works. I don't want you to be pointlessly cruel to him!"

"Ah, but this was only the first test." Rayburn straightened. "We have to find out if he can fool those who don't know what's going on." He looked to his lackeys. "Hit him hard and lay him at the bottom of Maiden's Cliff. Make it look like the fall and the blow killed him."

"No!" Tara screamed, but the third thug grabbed her and held her back. She could only watch helplessly as Simon's limp form was dragged away.

"Forgive me, Mr. Templar," she whispered. "Forgive me."

****

Inspector Teal was back at his desk, more shaken than he wanted to admit. He finally had Simon Templar, but not the way he had wanted. All he had was Simon's body in the morgue. And in spite of his desire to entrap Simon for his vigilante ways and methods, they had been friends, in some strange and twisted way. Now he was just gone. The Saint was dead.

Teal clasped his hands and rested his chin on them. What would happen when word got out about this? Girls all over the world would mourn, he knew that much. And what if some slightly daft admirer of The Saint decided to take up the mantle and become the next one? It would never be the same. Teal wasn't even sure he wanted to imagine The Saint, Version 2.0. He didn't want to start learning another Saint's _modus operandi_ ; he still hadn't figured out Simon Templar completely. Well, he doubted anyone had. Now no one ever would. He had been an enigma to the last. And Simon Templar was the only person Teal could ever accept as The Saint.

He blinked in surprise to suddenly notice a package on his desk, sent Express Delivery. He recognized the hand-writing only too well. He paled. He was receiving mail from a dead man.

Immediately he grabbed the padded envelope and tore it open, extracting a sheet of paper. As he unfolded and read it, bewilderment changed to disbelief and awe. And, perhaps, the slightest bit of foolish hope.

_Dear Claude,_

_Whatever happens, or seems to happen, do not allow my body to be autopsied or buried until you've tried administering the substance in this vial. Explanations will come later, unless it's already too late. In that case, this will be the last you will ever hear from me. Farewell, just in case._

__

Yours Always,  
Simon Templar

Stunned beyond comprehension, Teal reached deeper into the envelope and pulled out a small glass bottle and a wrapped hypodermic needle. He stared at them dumbly for a moment, until the full meaning of the note sunk in. Then he leaped up, clutching the objects in his hand as he barreled past his desk and out into the hall.

"Inspector?" exclaimed one surprised officer as Teal nearly bowled him down. Ignoring him, if indeed Teal heard him at all, Teal ran into the morgue and also almost plowed into the pathologist.

"Inspector Teal, what is the meaning of this?!" the surprised and indignant man cried.

"You haven't started autopsying Templar's body yet, have you?" Teal demanded.

"Why, no," the pathologist said in surprise. "I wasn't going to do that until tomorrow. After all, it's late and it's fairly obvious what killed him."

"I wonder," Teal muttered. Louder he said, "Where is he?"

"Over here, Inspector." The pathologist pulled out one of the freezer drawers.

Teal stared down at the body of his sometimes-nemesis. He looked like death warmed over . . . or would that be death chilled over? Blast, it was all ridiculous, wasn't it? He couldn't possibly be alive . . . or come back from the dead. . . . Still, Teal couldn't bring himself to pass it all off as nonsense, either. Simon had entrusted him with this vial. Whether or not it worked, Simon had believed it would. And Teal was willing to give him the chance to prove it would.

Anyway, whether or not he would admit it, he wanted to hold onto this thread of hope he had been given. He didn't want Simon to be dead.

"Inspector, what exactly is it you want?" the pathologist asked. The impatience in his voice was clear. "I was just about to lock up for the night and go home."

"What? Oh. Yes, go ahead and go home," Teal said with a wave of his hand. "I'll lock up here when I'm done."

"Done with what?!" the pathologist exclaimed.

Tired of waiting for him to leave, Teal unwrapped the needle and stuck it into the vial, drawing out some of the contents. "I'm going to try something."

The pathologist gripped his arms in exasperation. When Teal moved to plunge the needle into Simon's arm, however, the man snapped to attention and rushed forward. "See here, Inspector! What kind of show are you putting on? I know Templar's death must be quite a blow to you, since now you can't catch him and put him away, but we're not mad scientists here! I really must insist you stop whatever it is you're doing and leave this room!"

"If nothing happens, I'll be the first to admit I've gone crazy," Teal retorted. He lifted the limp arm, inserted the needle, and ejected the contents into a vein. Then, tense, he stepped back to wait and observe.

"What's _supposed_ to happen?" the pathologist cried. "I feel like the morgue is turning into Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory! Really, Inspector, I never would have expected this type of behavior from you!"

Teal ignored him. After a moment he exclaimed, "Look! Doesn't Templar look less pale than he did before?"

"Oh, I don't know!" the pathologist grumped. "You've got me all turned around."

Within the next couple of minutes, Teal knew Simon's skin was regaining a healthy color. But when Simon took an audible breath and gasped, Teal was still almost as shaken as the pathologist, who stepped back in horror and gave a loud exclamation. "He was alive all along! Inspector, what was in that vial?!"

"I don't know!" Teal retorted. "Templar sent it to me and . . . Templar, are you awake? Can you hear me?!"

Simon's eyes fluttered and opened. "Ah, Inspector Teal," he mumbled, his speech still slurred. "So you got my package in time and were willing to take a chance on it."

"Well, of course I'd take a chance on it, although I don't know why I ever did!" Teal cried. "You had no way of knowing I wouldn't dismiss the whole thing as nonsense or as a way for you to keep people guessing when you died!"

Simon slowly, woozily sat up on the slab and promptly cringed, holding a hand to the back of his head. "I had the utmost faith in you, Claude," he replied. "If I couldn't trust you to bring me back from the near-dead, who could I trust?"

"You have several dozen slightly shady characters who would have been more than happy to do it," Teal grumped.

"But it was so much more convenient this way," Simon said. "I needed to have a conference with you. If Tara had phoned you as she was supposed to do, none of this would have even been necessary. As it was, I didn't trust her to follow through and I took my own precautions."

"Who's Tara?!" Teal demanded. "What's going on? Why were you lying dead below Maiden's Cliff? How are you alive now?! What was in that vial?!"

Simon winced, closing one eye. "Oh Claude, really. Don't shout. Apparently they gave me a knock on the head to make the set-up look genuine."

"I can't begin to imagine who 'they' are, but if you didn't fall, someone certainly inflicted a nasty bump on purpose," Teal snapped. "You probably have a horrific concussion."

"A mild one, anyway. They probably tried to be careful so they wouldn't end up killing me from that." Upon seeing Teal's and especially the pathologist's expressions, Simon went on, "There's no need to worry that I'm some sort of undead horror monster; I am fully among the living and always was."

"Well, I knew you must have been alive all along when you started coming around," Teal shot back. "But Simon . . ."

"Claude, I'll answer all your questions," Simon interrupted. "I promise I will. But first things first. I'd like my clothes back, if you don't mind."

"What? Oh." Teal shook himself out of his stupor. "What are you doing standing around?" he scolded the pathologist. "I don't know where his clothes are. Get them!"

The pathologist quickly snapped to. "Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir!" he said as he scurried off.

****

Simon's explanation to Teal went on long into the night. Teal was appalled and scarcely able to believe the story he was being told. But he was sure Simon wasn't making it up; after seeing what he had tonight, he wasn't in any position to doubt.

Simon also had ideas on how to bring down all of the criminals. Although Teal was reluctant to go along, he listened. "Simon, are you sure they would take the bait?" he frowned at the conclusion of Simon's plan.

"Yes, I am," Simon insisted. "You didn't meet this man, Claude. He was absolutely demented. Just like Dr. Portman, he appears to delight in the torment of the human mind."

"Incredible." Teal shook his head. "Well, I'll check on that protege of hers who performed that abominable 'experiment' with the passengers on that private aircraft. But if he's still locked away, then what?"

"Then we assume he's another protege," Simon replied. "Oh, and while you're at it, check up on the status of their mentor. Let's make sure she's still locked away."

"I just hope I can get approval to do everything you want, Templar," Teal grumped. "This is a scheme even you couldn't pull off without official agreement."

"I don't think you'll have any trouble, Inspector, if you tell everything exactly as we rehearsed," Simon said. He stood from where he had been sitting on the edge of the desk. "We'll give The Saint a memorial the likes of which the world has never before seen."

"And hopefully won't see again for a long, long time," Teal muttered under his breath as he reached for the phone.

****

It didn't take long for the morning's news story of Simon Templar's death to spread like wildfire. And the further announcement that he had no living family and no one to arrange a funeral fitting for such an infamous character soon brought swarms of friends and former clients willing to do whatever they could to help.

"You know, I feel terrible about leading all of them on this way," Simon frowned to Teal in his office.

"Under the circumstances, I'm sure they'll forgive you when it's all over," Teal retorted.

"Regardless, I don't want to see them spend so much of their money on me," Simon insisted. "Many of them don't have the money to spare in the first place. In a situation like this, it couldn't be given back. Tell them a will was found and that I requested no embalming or a fancy ceremony, only a simple graveside service. And that instead of flowers, I would prefer donations to legitimate charities."

Teal sighed. "Well, that sounds like you," he conceded. "I can probably get them to believe it. And if they know you well, they'll probably comply."

Nevertheless, the memorial service was certainly a unique one. The cemetery was filled to overflowing with friends and admirers of Simon's from not just around England, but the world. Many tearful young women and some saddened men insisted on saying a few words about how Simon had helped them and what a loyal friend he had been. Simon himself, not wanting to stay away from his own funeral and hoping to spot the men they were after, showed up in disguise and stayed in the background.

"Well," Teal grunted, "you certainly have a rare opportunity that few people have while in this life, to see what a difference you've made in so many other lives."

Simon nodded, looking humbled. "It's gratifying. You see, Claude? It is important for the world to have a Saint."

"Oh!" Teal growled. Not wanting to argue the point, he didn't say more.

Simon just listened to the continuing eulogies and stories for a while. Several of those who spoke were formerly shady characters to whom he had given a second chance. They had taken it and turned over a new leaf. That, perhaps, pleased and touched Simon the most.

"Rayburn and his cronies are here," he said low to Teal after a while. "They're right over there, close to the coffin."

"The nerve of them!" Teal fumed. "You said they're hoping to find you buried alive!"

"Yes," Simon replied. "They'll come back tonight after the coffin is buried. I'm sure of it." He paused. "You know, I'm disappointed in Tara. She didn't want them to do that to me. I was hoping she would come forward and tell you everything if it looked like I was really going to be buried."

"They could have her locked up somewhere," Teal suggested.

"I know, but I'm afraid she's simply chosen to stand by her husband no matter what," Simon said.

Teal sighed heavily in frustration. "What is his connection with this madness anyway?" he grumbled. "If he's only an underling . . ."

"I wonder whether he is," Simon interrupted. "There are so many complicated mysteries concerning this situation, it's difficult to piece together truth from lies."

"Hopefully we'll be able to solve all of those mysteries tonight," Teal said.

****

It was some time before the last mourner finally left and the coffin was lowered into the ground and covered with dirt. Simon and Teal remained during all of that, concealed in a nearby mausoleum. Other police officers were scattered throughout the nearby area, hiding behind foliage or large monuments or inside other mausoleums. Nothing more happened until night fell and the cemetery was technically closed. Then, finally, several dark figures slinked through the night and over to the freshly dug grave.

"He should be waking up before long," a voice Simon recognized as Rayburn's announced. "That is, if Dr. Michaels' projected duration of the drug is correct."

A second figure bent down to the dirt. "Should we start digging it up so we'll be able to hear?"

"Just remove some of it," Rayburn said. "Uncover the upper half of the coffin, if possible. We'll listen until we're sure and then we'll replace the dirt."

Teal's stomach turned. "They're barbaric!" he snarled. "And they're all mad."

Simon looked rather ill himself. He could not be grateful enough that Teal had paid attention to the letter and given him the antidote.

The sound of shoveling filled the night. "If he does wake up around now, do you think the drug will last long enough for you to break Dr. Portman out of the asylum without suspicion?" a thug asked.

Teal stiffened, but Simon didn't look surprised.

"Yes, I think so," Rayburn said. "No one will have any reason to suspect anything. They'll think she's really dead! Instead she will be free to start her next great experiment into the human condition."

"Her next great experiment into her own insanity," Teal muttered.

The shovel scraped the coffin and the digging stopped soon after. "Here it is, Boss," the thug announced.

"Good," Rayburn said in satisfaction. "We'll wait and listen for a while."

Disgusted, Teal started to open the door of the mausoleum. "I think we've heard enough."

Simon concurred. Stripping off the disguise, he followed Teal out into the foggy evening and over to the gathered group.

Hearing the footsteps, Rayburn froze. "What's going on?" he demanded. "Is that you, Dr. Michaels?"

"No, it's the police," Teal retorted crisply. "You're all under arrest."

"On what charge, Officer?" Rayburn calmly asked. "Are you so concerned about people entering the cemetery past curfew that you have to stake it out now?"

"No, but I am concerned about grave desecration, assault and battery, and attempted murder," Teal said. "And that's just for starters."

"Attempted murder?" Rayburn echoed, still playing the part of the innocent. "And just whom are we supposed to have almost murdered?"

"Me," Simon announced as he stepped forward.

Several audible gasps went up. Rayburn actually looked truly shaken. "What . . . what is this?!" he cried. "You're supposed to be in there!" He pointed at the visible part of the coffin.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," Simon answered, his voice cold and unrelenting.

"But how?" one of the thugs exclaimed. "The drug wasn't supposed to wear off before now. Did Dr. Michaels make a mistake?"

"Hopefully we'll never know," Simon said. "In my case, I took the antidote from its hiding place and recruited someone to give it to me after I was unconscious. I revived long before the day's play-acting ever began."

Rayburn's eyes narrowed. "You are resourceful, Mr. Templar, just as I've always heard. You don't trust anyone, even your client."

"I trusted Inspector Teal here," Simon said. "That proved extremely beneficial for me and extremely unlucky for you. But speaking of my 'client,' where is she?"

"Safely back at home with her precious husband Donald," Rayburn said in some disgust. "That stupid woman and her obsession with that man. And even after he originally married her just to get at her formula!" He sighed. "Still, I can't complain too much, since that obsession won out over what you wanted of her."

"Yes, I've been meaning to ask how you did that," Simon frowned. "Her husband was safe. He's one of you. Why should she suddenly allow her feelings for him to cloud her chosen path and make her decide not to help me after all? You're the one obsessed with using that drug, not him."

"Dr. Michaels' husband has long been a short-tempered nuisance and not of much use to us anymore," Rayburn admitted. "We said that unless she succeeded in this mission, we would consider that he had failed his mission and had to be terminated."

Simon's eyes narrowed. "Inspector Teal was right, you are barbaric. Your kind can never be trusted. You probably would have killed him anyway, wouldn't you."

"No, we needed him alive to use as leverage with Dr. Michaels," Rayburn said. "That was the only way she would help us."

"Something still doesn't make sense here," Teal started to say.

A car pulling up outside the cemetery brought everyone's attention up. When the doors flew open and two people rushed out, Simon was certain of their identity before they ever drew close enough to see.

"Is he awake yet?" Donald Wilson's voice boomed out over the cemetery.

"Oh, please don't go through with the rest of your plan!" Tara wailed. "Please just let him live!"

Simon caught her just as she was about to run past him. "It's alright," he told her. "I'm not in the coffin."

 _"WHAT?!"_ Donald screamed.

Inspector Teal immediately reached his side before he could launch a furious assault. At the same moment, the other police officers also stood and came forward, surrounding Rayburn's group.

Tara was barely paying attention to any of that; at Simon's actions she had stopped short and stared. Even with only the light of the stars overhead, Simon could see her shock. "Mr. Templar? H-How?" She reached out, grasping his arms to make sure they were real.

"When I had you show me your hiding place for the formula, I took the antidote and replaced it with a vial of water," Simon said. "I gave the antidote to someone I trusted a good deal more than you."

Tara fell back. "You knew, didn't you?" she said softly.

"I knew I didn't trust you to call the police as we planned," Simon said. "And I knew something seemed fishy about the whole set-up. It never was about keeping your formula away from them, was it?"

Tara looked down. "No. After I was in love with Donald, he finally told me the whole story about the formula and why it was so important. I gave it willingly then."

"Don't tell him all these things!" Donald snarled.

"Oh, what's the use keeping it from him now?" Tara sighed. "Mr. Templar, you were always the target. The real plan was to get you into a position where the drug would be used on you. Mr. Johnson wanted to use you as a guinea pig. He thought you would make a _fascinating_ subject." She spat the word out as though it tasted bad.

"Well, like teacher, like student," Simon remarked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "So the story you gave me when you showed up on my doorstep was nothing but a pack of lies."

"Yes. And there was more," Tara continued. "Mr. Johnson knew you would do everything in your power to catch Dr. Portman if she were freed. He wanted you completely out of the way before he would even go ahead with his plot to use the drug on her in order to smuggle her out of the asylum."

Simon nodded. "That makes sense. He knew catching Portman was one of my personal crusades." He glanced to Rayburn and then back to Tara. "But now it's all over, Tara. Everyone is being arrested, including your husband. What are you going to do now?"

"Naturally I'll be arrested as well," Tara said quietly. "What I do then will depend on what my husband does. If he agrees to testify for a lighter sentence, so will I."

"And if he doesn't, you won't," Simon finished.

"My fate will be the same as his, whatever that may be," Tara said.

Simon was not impressed. "He doesn't deserve such loyalty. I can't fully fault you for standing by your husband, but when standing by him means participating in his despicable activities, it's gone too far."

Tara didn't answer. She bowed her head and walked to Inspector Teal, holding out her hands to be cuffed. Teal gave her her rights and snapped them on, then looked to Simon in exasperation.

"Well, Claude," Simon said before he could speak, "does that clear up all of your questions?"

"All of the important ones," Teal said. "But Simon, one of these days, one of your cases is going to be the death of you!"

"You may be right, Claude," Simon answered. "But thankfully, it isn't this case. Tomorrow we'll announce that I'm alive and well."

"And all of your friends and admirers will rejoice," Teal grunted.

"Well, what can I say? I am truly needed and appreciated in this world where the innocent are always preyed upon by the Ungodly."

"In this case, _you_ were the one being preyed upon," Teal pointed out.

"And thanks to you, it turned out more than alright," Simon proclaimed.

"Yes, well, I won't always be around to get you out of your sticky little situations," Teal grumped.

"You're always around when I need you, Claude," Simon said. "And sometimes when I don't."

Teal rolled his eyes. "Someday, Templar," he muttered. "Someday."

Simon ignored that.

As everyone trouped toward the gate, Simon had to pass by the partially open grave. He had been putting up a nonchalant air of being perfectly unbothered by what could have been his fate, but now he looked down at the coffin and grimaced before going on his way. There was no one Simon wanted to burden with his feelings. He was The Saint for everyone else, but he himself was alone.

That was alright, though. As long as he knew he was protecting the innocent, he could deal with his personal demons.

He walked out of the cemetery, leaving the nightmare behind.


End file.
